


Secret Heritage

by chappysmom



Series: Heritage [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:40:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23846122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chappysmom/pseuds/chappysmom
Summary: One last fragment of the Heritage series ...What if John didn't find out about his father until it was too late?
Series: Heritage [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/39226
Comments: 69
Kudos: 263





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this unfinished, two chapter fragment on my hard-drive for years, and decided to post it, but please be warned--these two chapters are all there is. I've tried to figure out where I was going with it, and ... there's just nothing there. But reading it now, the two chapters work well enough on their own. I just want to be sure you know at the beginning that this is all there is!
> 
> Note: I own nothing but my own plot, everything else is the BBC’s, Stephen Moffat/Mark Gatiss’s, and Arthur Conan Doyle’s. I just like to play here. Not beta’d or Brit-picked. This is the last story in my “Heritage” series—where I take one fact, change it, and then watch as it alters every aspect of the story. In all of them, John is the grandson of an earl but is still an invalided-home army-doctor who decides to share a flat with Sherlock Holmes. 
> 
> Enjoy.

John had thought he couldn’t be surprised by anything his flatmate did. In the months they’d lived together, John thought he had seen it all. Body parts, explosions, press conferences ... but being flown to Buckingham Palace by helicopter only to find Sherlock Holmes dressed only in a sheet was ... unexpected.

“Are you wearing any pants?” he asked, and then couldn’t resist the peal of giggles when Sherlock said no. 

How had his life gotten this ridiculous?

It wasn’t helped when Mycroft came out like a peeved schoolmaster to scold them, even if John had to admit the man had a point—it didn’t seem right to be so disrespectful just because Sherlock was in a strop.

Yes, there was no question that his life had gotten more interesting since meeting Sherlock Holmes. Nothing in his former life would have drawn him here to the seat of the empire—a medal for extraordinary military service, perhaps, but the opportunities for an RAMC doctor to achieve such a thing were vanishingly few. He had been the only doctor to be wounded on duty in years, after all, and had managed to get himself shot. Not exactly award-winning service.

So, it was an unexpected ... honour? Treat? ... experience to be here at Buckingham Palace. Being reprimanded like an errant child just made the whole situation more surreal.

And then it got even weirder.

Finally, Mycroft had chivvied Sherlock into getting dressed and the three of them were left waiting in icy silence for whatever it was Mycroft had gone to such lengths to arrange. (A _helicopter_ , for Christ’s sake.) 

“Mycroft?” A tall man had entered, holding his hand out with a polite smile. 

Mycroft stood. “David, good to see you. May I introduce my brother, Sherlock Holmes, and Dr John Watson. This is David Brandon.”

There were handshakes all around and tea being poured while Sherlock and Mycroft continued to snipe at each other. John glanced over at David to see how he was reacting to Sherlock’s unique attitude, and found him watching John.

John froze for a moment, tea cup poised in front of his mouth, and then took a sip. Maybe David was wondering the same thing about him—how he dealt with Sherlock and Mycroft’s brotherly squabbles interfering with their veneer of professionalism. Or, well, Mycroft’s. Sherlock obviously couldn’t care less how he appeared to others. John just hoped it wouldn’t keep David from whatever case he was here to offer. God knew Sherlock could use the distraction since the dead hiker obviously hadn’t been much of a challenge.

Finally, Mycroft brought the conversation around to the point. “I think we should get on, don’t you? We have a schedule.” David nodded, and then paused as if looking for just the right way to present his problem. John glanced over at Sherlock to gauge his level of interest and was surprised to find his flatmate watching _him_.

In fact, suddenly, all of them were staring at John as if he were an animal to study, waiting to see which way he would leap, which lever he would press given a choice. 

“You might want to put your cup down, John,” Sherlock said softly and, wondering at the strange turn in dynamics, John did. He had a feeling he should be unencumbered for whatever was coming next. 

He wondered if he was about to be arrested for treason.

“Dr Watson, I wonder if you heard about the recent passing of the Earl of Undershaw?” David asked him.

John’s brow creased. “Er ... I might have seen it in the paper,” he said, “but I can’t say I paid any particular attention.”

“So, the name Brandon doesn’t mean anything to you?”

“Other than an army mate who named their son Brandon, no. Not that I can think of.” John looked at the other man. “What is this about?”

“Please indulge our curiosity, Dr Watson,” Mycroft said.

John glanced at Sherlock and found an odd expression on his face. “Do you know what this is about?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Apparently I’m not the only one to find you intriguing.”

“One more question, please, Doctor, and then I’ll explain,” said David. At John’s nod, he asked, “What do you know about your father?”

“My father? Just that he died before I was born, and that his name was Jonathan, because Mum named me for him,” John said, surprised. Of all the questions he was expecting, one on his father was the last he expected. “Now ... what is going on?”

“As we mentioned, the Earl of Undershaw died recently.” David reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. “He was my grandfather and I’m the executor of his estate. In going through his papers, I found something interesting.”

“About me?” John hadn’t thought he could be any more surprised.

He couldn’t help glancing at Sherlock again, hoping for a cue, but his friend had that razor-sharp analytical look on his face, which John knew meant his mind was going at subsonic speeds.

“Well, about your mother, certainly. I found this in his safe.” He turned the envelope over in his hands. “It contains a marriage license between my grandfather’s son Jonathan Brandon and one Tess Watson.”

John felt like he’d been hit over the head. “That’s my mother’s name.”

David nodded. “Yes. She and my Uncle Jonathan were married in April 1979—an elopement, I’m told. That’s about eleven months before you were born, I believe?”

John nodded, automatically reaching out for the envelope David handed him. He noted absently that his hand was rock-steady as he opened it to find a sheaf of legal-looking papers. 

“Uncle Jonathan died in a skiing accident just three months after the wedding,” David said.

“Skiing? I didn’t know that. She told me it was an accident, but never elaborated. I always assumed it was a car, “ John said, thumbing through the papers. Then he stopped. “Wait ...”

“Yes,” David said. “I believe that Grandfather disapproved of the marriage and while he might have become reconciled to it, Uncle Jonathan’s death was unfortunately timed. I believe he didn’t want the reminder.”

“So he paid off his widowed, _pregnant_ daughter-in-law?” 

John was outraged. No wonder his mother had refused to talk about his father’s family. No wonder she had kept this from him. He would have hated knowing this, would have hated his grandfather for the callousness. Yes, he could see that it was a nice sum of money—it explained how Mum had been able to afford to buy a house—but still. The knowledge that his grandfather had paid so much so as not to be reminded of John’s existence ... well, it hurt.

He didn’t know what was on his face, but Mycroft was the one who spoke next. “We don’t think he knew about you, Dr Watson.”

“What? How is that even possible?”

“From what we can gather, when your father died, your grandfather and your mother mutually decided to part ways. They had not had any time to get to know each other, and both were grieving for Jonathan—I don’t believe there was malice behind your grandfather’s payment. There might have been some guilt for his eagerness to ignore his son’s marriage, but there’s no indication he meant anything untoward.”

“Untoward?” John asked with a snort. “He ignored my entire existence for almost forty years!”

“Ah, but that’s the thing,” said David smoothly. “I don’t think he did—he didn’t _know_. And I think your mother was so wounded after Uncle Jonathan’s death, that she took the money and withdrew. When she found out she was pregnant ... I think she kept it secret. She named you after herself, after all, and there’s no record of her ever having any contact with Grandfather. I truly don’t think he knew about you.”

John’s head was swimming. “So ... Mum and Dad eloped. She got pregnant, but he died. Then when her disapproving father-in-law offered her a chunk of money to disappear, she did just that—deliberately keeping knowledge of her son from him out of, what, spite?”

“Perhaps. Or it might have been a sense of independence, or even justice. She took the money after all, and presumably agreed to no-contact as one of the requirements. Not that he would have objected, I’m sure, to her alerting him to a grandson, but she might well have feared what would happen next.”

John could just imagine. “Like Little Lord Fauntleroy. The Earl would have taken me and excluded her from seeing me—maybe not that extreme, but he would probably have interfered about schools and plans and ... Christ.”

He was suddenly overwhelmed. If all this was true—and he had no reason to doubt it—he was the grandson of an _Earl_. He could have grown up in a big house, gone to Harrow or Eton—maybe even with Sherlock. He would have been raised with the knowledge that he would ... 

He lifted his head and stared at David. “Does this mean ...?”

For the first time since the conversation started, Sherlock spoke up. “You’re the new Earl of Undershaw, John.”

#

John sat in his chair at 221B, rubbing his head, glass of whiskey at the ready beside him. 

“Long day?” Sherlock asked.

He looked at his flatmate with raised eyebrows. “That’s new. You don’t usually apply understatement to a conversation.”

“In the absence of a new case, I need to entertain myself somehow, John.”

“Well then, welcome to the circus of my life,” John said. “It’s always something.”

Sherlock remained surprisingly, tactfully silent for a bit, then said, “You blame your mother more than your grandfather.”

John huffed a sigh. “It’s not about blame, Sherlock. Not really. I can’t be angry at him for not knowing I was alive, and I can’t blame her for taking the money he was offering. Having a place to live made a huge difference for us when I was a kid. She struggled as a single mother, but at least didn’t have to worry about the rent. I just ... I can see both of their points of view. I just wish they had thought about mine.”

“Not that your grandfather could have.”

“No ... but, even there,” John burst out. “You’d think a grieving father would have kept tabs on his widowed daughter-in-law for at least the next nine months, just in case. Even if he didn’t approve of her, she was a young newlywed. It’s not like a posthumous baby wasn’t a possibility. Why didn’t he check?”

“Maybe she kept it from him on purpose,” Sherlock said. “Like you said earlier, your Grandfather would—well, maybe not have tried to steal you from her—but he would have interfered.”

“Mum always told me it was more important to be myself, to hold myself to my own standards, than to try to meet the artificial standards of society. I’m guessing now she had good reason for that perspective.”

“She raised you to be independent, like her.”

“Yeah, for all the good it did me.”

“Please, John. No false modesty. That’s the reason you’re so interesting. If the Earl had gotten his hands on you and insisted you’d gone to a proper school and have a proper education and etiquette lessons and whatever else Earls-in-training receive, you would not be the interesting person you are now.”

“Me?” John was aware he had skills and depth and traits to make him a unique and reasonably confident individual, but so far as he knew, nobody had ever found him interesting. Good company, sure; a fair commander, he hoped so. Qualified. Competent. Good in an emergency. But, _interesting_? 

“It’s not the fault of the average person that you have such good camouflage skills, John. I keep telling you that they see but they don’t observe. You are an intriguing individual who insists on going around in ill-fitting jumpers and battered clothes. People see the surface but don’t know enough to look deeper for the former army captain who can keep up with London’s most difficult detective ... because, yes John, I am aware of my well-founded reputation. Believe me, if I found you boring, you would be doing no more than paying your share of the rent ... assuming you’d lasted this long. And, trust me, the fact you have simply proves that you are, in fact, interesting with hidden depths.”

John didn’t know what to say to that. 

After a moment, though, he asked, “You think they’re right? David and your brother? That the Earl is my grandfather?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, just tapped away at his computer for a moment before reaching over to hand it to John. 

On the screen was a photo of the Earl of Undershaw. There were differences, of course, but if one looked, there was a definite family resemblance.

“I don’t believe my brother would have brought this information to you if there was reasonable doubt,” he told John. “Nor did either of them imply that your mother was anything less than an honest woman. Elopement or not, she was legally married to your father, and you were born eight months after he died. They will no doubt want a DNA test to be sure, but the family resemblance is there to be seen.”

“And because the Undershaw title is so old ...”

“It’s hereditary, yes.”

“Which makes me ...”

“An Earl, yes,” Sherlock said. “Congratulations, my lord.”

Oh, Christ.

# 

NOTE: That’s right—the trip to the palace was solely for John to learn the startling news.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww, you're all wonderful. Thank you for all the lovely compliments! They mean so much!

John stood in front of the receptionist, trying not to think how her outfit had probably cost more than his entire wardrobe.

“I’m here to see Geoffrey Barrington.”

She sniffed down her well-powdered nose. “And your name ... sir?”

“John Watson.”

She gestured toward the waiting area. “Please have a seat.”

John complied, wishing he had called ahead. David had assured him it was unnecessary, that the solicitor had represented the family for years and would be happy to meet him whenever it was convenient for John. John couldn’t help but feel this seemed arrogant. He knew what it was like trying to meet a schedule when someone was insisting you drop everything and help them _right now_. ( _Yes, Sherlock, I’m thinking of you_ , he thought.)

Still, considering what his schedule was like these days, trying to call ahead would have been difficult. He and Sherlock had been working all hours lately, and about the most notice he could have given the solicitor would have been the fifteen minutes’ transit time from Baker Street.

He shifted in the chair, trying to ignore the look the receptionist was giving him. Maybe he should have changed into a suit, but if he had delayed, Sherlock would probably have dragged him off again, and John had put this meeting off long enough.

He was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he apparently was an Earl now. 

An Earl.

It sounded ridiculous even in his head. He had grown up in a small, solidly middle-class bungalow with his single mother. They had never starved, but they had never had abundant money, either. John had had a newspaper route when he was twelve, not for pocket money, but to help with expenses. They had worked for their living, both of them. And all the time, his grandfather was a member of the hereditary peerage.

John wasn’t sure what this meant in terms of income and property. He had certainly heard enough about old families in debt, struggling to make ends meet just like anyone else. With his luck, the title he was inheriting would be one hung about with debts like chains. Though he supposed he could live in a nice ancestral home while trying to figure out how to deal with it.

He laughed to himself. As if he would leave 221B? And the thought of him in charge of anyone’s financial well-being was, well, laughable. He didn’t exactly have the best track record where money was concerned. Not because he was frivolous. He had grown up with too much penny-pinching to be truly careless, and it wasn’t like he had had a lot of living expenses when he was in the army, and he had made a decent salary which should have seen him comfortable enough not to need a flatmate when he’d returned to London.

He didn’t like to think about how stupid he’d been, getting involved with that poker game. One stupid night’s worth of playing with stakes that were higher than he’d realized had blown his credit. It had taken him every bit of his savings to scrounge enough to satisfy the swindlers, but what else could he have done? The only saving grace had been that, since the card sharks hadn’t exactly been working above board, nobody official knew of his stupidity. His sudden broke-ness hadn’t affected his credit or made an official record. But ... money had been tight ever since.

His own fault. He had never argued that. And he had tried to be responsible ever since, but ... this? He knew nothing about finances on this kind of scale. He didn’t know what an Earl even did in this day and age. It’s not exactly feudal England anymore.

John sighed and stared at the magazine selection on the coffee table, shaking his head at the titles. Even the magazines were outside his budget. Really, what was he doing here? It was like a cosmic joke.

Down the hall, a door opened, and two men came strolling up. “...And of course, all you need do is call if you need anything, Brian.”

“I will. Thank you, Geoffrey.”

There was a moment of small talk and then the client left and, sparing a glance at John, the solicitor turned to his receptionist. “I don’t suppose ...”

“No, sir. Lord Undershaw has not phoned.”

Geoffrey nodded. “If we have not heard from him by the end of day, we’ll need to contact Mr Brandon again. I know he said his lordship would contact us, but it has been several days, and there are pressing matters to attend.” 

He leaned closer to the desk and asked a question too quietly for John to hear. The woman answered with a sidelong look at John. If he were depending on her good graces to meet with the solicitor, it seemed obvious that wasn’t going to happen.

Maybe he should have brought Sherlock with him, John thought with an internal grin. It certainly would have gotten their attention ... just before they were kicked out. Though, really, that was unfair. When he chose to use them, Sherlock had impeccable manners. It was convincing him to use them that was the challenge.

It looked like Geoffrey was about to slip back to his office, so John stood up. “Excuse me, I’m ...”

The solicitor turned with only the slightest hesitation and held out a hand. “Yes, Marie was just telling me. I’m afraid I’m quite busy, though. If you could perhaps make an appointment?”

“Yes, I apologize for dropping in. It seems rude, but I was told time was of the essence and my schedule this last week has been impossible to plan ahead, so I came when I had a chance. If it’s inconvenient, I only have myself to blame.”

“I’m afraid there must be some misunderstanding, Mr ...?

“Watson. Dr John Watson. David gave me your card,” John said, with a slight emphasis on the name. “He offered to come along, but ... like I said, it’s been impossible to plan ahead for anything this week.”

He saw the glimmering of understanding in the man’s eyes as he asked, “David?”

“Yes, David Brandon. He’s my cousin—which still seems odd to say. I only met him a week ago, and it’s still fairly new. I was the only son of a single mother, so discovering I have, well, not only a cousin but an entire extended family is something to get used to.

“David Brandon,” Geoffrey repeated as his receptionist gawked. “So then you are ...?”

“The Earl of Undershaw, yes,” John said. “I know I don’t look the part. Like I said, I am sorry about showing up without any notice, but I was afraid if I delayed to change my clothes that Sherlock would find something else for me to do, so ...”

Geoffrey looked like he had found his composure and John was relieved to see a faint trace of humour as well. “You mean Sherlock Holmes?”

“The Net Detective?” the receptionist asked with a gasp.

John nodded. “The very one—and the reason my schedule is practically impossible to predict.”

“Well.” Geoffrey almost visibly girded himself. “Won’t you come in, my lord? We have much to discuss.”

“Please, call me John. I’m still trying to get used to the title,” he said, following him into the office. “And I have a feeling we will be spending a lot of time together.”

“I don’t think that would be appropriate, sir,” Geoffrey said.

John sighed. “How about we start with Doctor, which at least is a title I feel I earned. Or Captain. I’m still working my way up to Earl.”

“But ... Captain _and_ doctor?”

“RAMC,” John said. “Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers until I came back to London.”

He glanced back over his shoulder at the receptionist. She had torn her eyes away from them and was now madly typing at her computer. “Any bets that she’s looking up my blog right about now?”

Geoffrey smiled. “I didn’t know you were a gambling man, my ... er ... Doctor.”

“Not anymore,” John said fervently as they closed the door.

#

The next day, John was sitting in the bull pen at NSY, watching Sherlock rant at Donovan over some procedural issue. He thought about going over to try to break it up, but it was too much work. Instead, he would sit here and try to sort through some of the things he had learned from his solicitor yesterday. 

Like, the fact that he _had_ a solicitor.

Lestrade came over and watched for a moment. “Those two are never going to agree on anything, are they?”

“Doesn’t look it,” John said. “I’m going with the argument that the competition will keep both of them on their game, what do you think?”

“If they don’t kill each other first,” Lestrade said, glancing at the television tuned to BBC news in the corner. 

He froze and, brows creasing, leaned forward. “Something you’ve forgotten to tell us, John?” he asked quietly.

“What?” John turned and looked at the monitor. “Oh, that. Look, Greg, do you think you could ...?”

But before he could get the television switched to another channel, one of the grunts he didn’t know had turned on the volume. 

“... _the new Earl of Undershaw, John Watson. He is a former army doctor who had attained the rank of Captain before retiring from active service a year ago. If you think he looks familiar, that’s because we know him as the assistant to Sherlock Holmes, the Consulting Detective who has achieved notoriety of late in a number of ..._ ”

One by one, it seemed that the entire room turned to face him. Even Sherlock and Sally had stopped their squabbling. 

“Watson? Is that true?”

“You’re having us on, right, mate?”

“Well done, John! You had me fooled.”

Right. So much for keeping this a secret until he felt secure in his footing. Luckily for him, his nerves were at their best when he was under pressure.

Giving a nod, he stood up and cleared his throat in a suddenly silent room. “Thank you. I wish I could take credit for the convincing fake newscast, but ... it’s not fake.” 

He paused to clear his throat, ignoring the disbelieving looks being sent his way. 

“It turns out that my grandfather was in fact the Earl of Undershaw, something I only just found out last week. My father died in an accident just three months after marrying my mother, leaving her pregnant with me, but out of touch with his family. They apparently hadn’t gotten along, and so in turn, she kept her pregnancy from them.”

He heard Lestrade laugh. “And I thought my family was bad.”

“Everybody loves secrets,” John told him. “Anyway, nobody knew any of this until my cousin David found my parents’ marriage license in my grandfather’s safe and started to investigate until he found me. It’s all true, and nobody is more surprised than I am.”

He was greeted by silence that lingered.

“You’re really not having us on?” Donovan finally asked.

“No, hard as it is to believe, it’s the truth. Believe me, I’m still having a hard time wrapping my head around this.”

“Maybe if you dressed the part?”

“Oh, please,” John said with a groan. “I already went through this at the solicitor’s. I’ll try to hunt out the ancestral ermine when I go visit the house.”

“You have a _house_?” Anderson’s voice was dripping with disbelief.

Sherlock swept forward, wrapping his scarf around his neck. “You don’t think an Earl would sleep on the street, do you, Anderson? Of course he has a house. And I ... I have a case.”

John gave a nod. “Right. That’s my cue. Feel free to talk about me behind my back after I’m gone.”

And, relieved, he followed Sherlock out the door.

#

“May I help you?”

John looked up at the very stiff, starched butler with a sigh. Here we go again, he thought. “I suspect you can. I’m John Watson, the, er, new Earl.”

To his relief, the man just nodded. “Of course. Do come in, your lordship.”

And, taking a deep breath against whatever might be coming, John stepped inside.

# 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it. I'm sorry. I wish there were more, but that's really all there is! Hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
